Part 1 of Sake: Invitation
Natori takes me out to dinner. It is a usual, kind gesture from him. Upon first meetings, I would be wary of ulterior motives. Because yes, Natori was prone to do that; it always was related to yōkai though.
I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and take to the invitation.
When I tell Nyanko-sensei this, he announces that he's going to drink with other yōkai for company, claiming he'd reek too much of the lousy exorcist. He studies Natori diligently, eyeing the man up and down with squinted eyes. "I expect you to take care of Natsume," he clips; a sharp warning. He turns his plump body to face me, his cat-grin more reassuring than unsettling. "I won't be far off if I'm needed." With a final 'idiot humans' to both Natori and me, Sensei waddles off to the forest behind my home.
I expect a subtle insinuation during the outing.
There is none.
There isn't even a mention of yōkai.
Bewildered, I furrow my brows. He understands this as my meal being not to my liking. When I dismiss that prediction, he flows back to a casual update of his acting career, trouble sleeping, and asking about my own well-being. That is it.
I didn't realize a confused frown formed once more until Natori points it out. I apologize quietly and reach for another piece of sushi with my chopsticks. A ceramic ochoko is pushed near my hand. I look to Natori, holding a similar cup. He smiles gently at me, almost like he is asking to be forgiven.
"Have some. Just don't tell your aunt, okay?"
I peer into the small cup, watching faint wafts of steam rise from the hot sake inside. Nyanko-sensei really loves this drink (and often stinks of it).
I raise the cup and acknowledge Natori, trying a small grateful smile. "Alright."
The cup tilts to my mouth and I taste the hot beverage. It's sweet, spicy, and just a bit strong. I'm not sure if I like it yet. I look to Natori for guidance. His lips quirk up, looking amused and almost rueful, and tips the ochoko to his lips. I follow suit, taking a larger sip than the last, feeling the tingle of alcohol on my tongue.
Natori shares with me some entertaining stories and even brought around teasing Sensei a little. I mention times when he was often mistaken as a pig. We both laugh and I feel the sake warmly tinge my cheeks.
We continue our meal with sparse yet enjoyable conversation. More than once, I catch his eyes on me.
Natori notes that I have a flush, most likely from the sake I just had. I laugh; I'm not sure why. Was his commentary funny?
My head and body feel resilient. I'm light, airy, calm. There's a mouthful of sake left in my ochoko. I decide to finish it to not be wasteful and maintain this bliss.
I think Natori kindly chides me. I really shouldn't have had that much to drink. He looks concerned, earnestly mindful. He takes back my ochoko and inspects its empty contents. His brows are furrowed and he wears a shallow frown.
The lizard yōkai that trails Natori's body captures my attention when it sweeps by his neck. It looks one way before settling on the other direction. A voice calls to me. Subsequently, I respond, dragging my eyes up to meet carnelian irises.
After a long pause he says, "Let me escort you home."
I become anxious and a bit sickly from Natori's request. My fingers trace the outline of the Book of Friends in my bag as my other hand reaches for the tokkuri, but Natori places it out of reach on his side of the table. He signals a waitress for the check.
I look down to the edge of the table. There are hardly any scratches or dents. As for my hand gripping the edge, I regard a faint paper-cut scar on my wrist.
I let the alcohol lead me.
When we make it outside, I adjust my messenger bag across my chest and cold air breezes past. Promptly, my hands wrap around my arms for warmth. My face feels hotter than before. ...Now my arms do too.
It takes me a moment to realize Natori sacrificed his brown jacket for me. I must have looked at him strangely (or my face must have been weird itself) because he doesn't look at me. I'm about to ask if it's okay to wear it, but he beats me to it. He reassures the issue that he's a bit warm himself. ("I even have long-sleeves; it's fine, Natsume.")
I tell him I'm thankful for the jacket and give a conscious smile. The jacket is a bit too big for me, but warm.
...It even smells nice.
I didn't realize I said that aloud. I quickly apologize and try to hide my furiously red face by the jacket's collar. Natori responds with a gentle laugh. There is a faint flush there too.
After the exchange, he seems hesitant to move on. I'm ahead of him by a few feet and turn around to see him scrutinizing me. I become self-conscious and curious. Is my face ridiculously red? Did I not thank him properly? Is there a yōkai behind me? (I quickly glimpse behind me; none.)
Perplexed, I approach Natori (I feel so light) and ask if something is amiss.
He looks taken back, then validated, albeit sounding remorseful. "I think you should sober up a bit before I bring you back. I don't think your aunt would praise me for offering you alcohol."
Words spill out of my mouth too easily. "I'm fine, Natori. She'll be fine too." Would she? Why would I say that? Of course she'd worry; I'm too reserved and careless than normal, even my face is too red to be blamed on a weak breeze.
Surely Natori points these out also, furthermore remarking a sway in my movement that I haven't noticed (or outrightly ignored). "As well as your breath; it smells of alcohol—" When did he get the chance to smell my breath…? "I should have minded you more… no. I really shouldn't have offered in the first place."
I could go back home like this or wait to sober up; either way Touko-san will be upset. I raise my eyes to Natori's. It doesn't matter either way, does it? Touko knows that I make unexpected outings before. I'm just staying with a friend. She always accepts that.
"Alright," my voice cracks. "I'll call Touko-san." —once we get to your place, I almost add. But that sounds unnatural.
I've never been to Natori's residence with just Natori.
It's a simple apartment rented out by his studio, he tells me. Basic furnishings and function; I get the feeling he doesn't stay often, if only for sleep.
"Make yourself comfortable. I'll fetch you the phone and water." Natori disappears after leading me to the couch. I place my bag on the floor at the edge of the couch. As I'm sitting I inquire the surroundings, expecting Natori's shiki to float about. There's no sound or sight of them.
Natori returns shortly. I take the phone from him, dropping it in my lap because I didn't use a strong enough grasp. I call home and inform Touko that I'm staying with a friend from school for the night. She finds no dilemma with this and wishes me a good night.
In the meantime, Natori has sat down and turned on the television. The water he collected for me waits on the coffee table in front of us. I drink from the glass, delighted by its coolness washing down my throat. I gasp softly after a long draw. I turn to thank Natori, but I catch his head rotating to the television from my direction. I don't tell him I noticed this and thank him.
He turns to look at me and smiles. "It's not a problem."
My head still floats, but it's not unpleasant. And yet I harness that enjoyable feeling; it's something I don't wish to dismiss. My body feels malleable and my eyesight reads every movement as fluid. I taste the alcohol escaping through my breaths.
I nurse the glass of water in my hands, noticing the cool condensation against my palms. My parched mouth takes another sip.
The cushions beneath me shift. I look to Natori in question; his arm is tossed along the back of the couch, body leisurely sunken into the furniture. His head is faced toward me, glasses glared by the luminosity of the television.
"Oh." He blinks, then removes his glasses to place on the table. "I don't need to be wearing these at this time, huh?" I honestly forgot about that; Natori uses glasses to see yōkai clearer. He even jests that it's also a disguise when he doesn't want to be recognized as an actor. I guess it works… just as long as he tones down his 'charm.'
But… since he was wearing them, does that mean he was prepared in case of a yōkai? …Well, Sensei did warn him. I glance to the bag near my feet.
One of the prominent reasons why I'm constantly targeted is because of the book. Natori still doesn't know about the Book of Friends. His protection would be feigned if that was known, wouldn't it? My face drops into dejection; I don't want that to be the case, but it might be… Regardless, he's in danger knowing or not knowing its existence — because he's around me.
I face Natori with a grimace. "You really considered Nyanko-sensei's warning, huh?"
Natori blinks wide-eyed at me before retorting with an amused tone. "I'd be a fool not to. He might eat me if you had gotten hurt." We both chuckle, but Natori continues. "If he didn't request it, I would regardless. You're my friend." A soft smile that he flashes makes me flounder. I purse my lips flat and pick at the cuffs of the jacket I'm wearing. "Besides," Natori adds, framing his chin with his thumb and index finger, "you're my apprentice with a strong spiritual energy. It'd be a calamity for you to be injured or dead!"
I narrow my eyes at him, countering jokingly, "Mm, right. What are the chances of the useless exorcist finding another able-bodied apprentice?"
Natori lowers his hand and grins at me. "Very slim, Natsume. I'd be in despair if I lost you."
That sounds more sincere than I anticipated. Speechless, I nod with a quiet 'mm' before taking another sip from the glass in my hands. Disconcerted from the way Natori's words sounded, I keep my head bowed toward the television. Some late-night talk show is screening; the host sits in a chair adjacent to his guest. The guest has his legs crossed, lounging deep into the cushiony chair. The volume is set low.
I feel myself sweat a bit under the borrowed jacket. I set the glass on the table to remove the jacket and place it on the couch's arm. My blood continues to flow with intoxication, as with my breath, heavy and labored.
...I don't want to involve others, I think abruptly when recalling the inherited book. Natori said he'd protect me without Sensei's request, but he may get hurt. What does he gain from that?
"Natori, if you ever feel like hanging around me is too burdensome, you should leave. I can't stand the thought of someone getting hurt because of their involvement with me." When I'm around and people become hurt, it's because of me, because I see yōkai, because the yōkai terrorize me. "I'm used to it. It's understandable." I feel a bit chilly now; I move to pull the jacket around my shoulders.
"If that was the case with everyone, you'd be truly alone." Natori shifts next to me; I keep my head low towards the television. "You forget I can see them too. You don't think I've thought and said the same thing when I was younger?" You don't know about the Book of Friends, I reason. "You have to believe in others, Natsume." Something warm is placed on my hand; with a glance, I discover it's Natori's hand. I gaze at it as he continues. "Your close ones understand that you don't wish to hurt them. It's difficult to be comfortably alone, Natsume. Some can see your desire to be with people." Natori squeezes my hand. I think about returning the gesture, so I push my hand up into his. I don't dare look at him; I'm really embarrassed. Touko-san is the only person who has held my hand.
Natori leans in toward me. His breath faintly touches my hair. "A relationship with another is a combined effort. If one puts trust in you, isn't it polite to reciprocate?"
"Y-Yeah…" I lean away from the closing distance, but I find myself immobilized when he tousles my hair. I contemplate asking him about what happened when he was younger. Were you alone? Did you have any friends? Did your family know? Did you know anyone who could see? I wanted to ask these before, but they sound too intrusive after just being acquainted. A warm finger touches my cheek and I carefully look up. Natori's hand lowers to my forehead where his thumb brushes against the side of my brow.
I want to hide when Natori fixes his sight on me — now that his glasses are removed, I feel exposed. Was it because he removed an object that aided in my safety, or that his eyes appear imposing?
His hand slips away from mine and reaches to hold my jaw. I shiver when the other hand falls so that he now frames my face with both palms. A finger extends to slide behind my ear; it gently, slowly, strokes there.
Despite the care, collectedness, and leisure, — which I'm sure Natori intends to be tender and thoughtful — I'm unnerved and begin to panic. My lungs pick up a frantic breath. I avert my eyes from him — embarrassing to admit, but they had ensnared me for a moment with its color and emotional intensity. The glass cup on the table seizes my attention (if only it being a fleeting distraction). Its condensation has pooled and left a ring of moisture around its base.
'Maybe I should clean that up,' I want to say, but I'm cut off. The palms on my face pull up and forward. Instinctually, I look to whatever is tugging at me. Natori's head bows in my direction, his carnelian eyes search mine. Thoughts are stagnant in my head, including the pleas to respond. Words to voice them are choked in my throat. Dread has paralyzed me. I stare agape at Natori.
I don't object, I don't plea, I don't make a single noise.
Natori tilts his head and when he leans closer, his eyes shut. My breathing is near erratic — my heart throbs mercilessly against my chest. What is he doing? I shudder — the moment is fast, and slow. His hands coddle my head gingerly, but I am not swayed. Why is he doing this? Hastily, I clutch the sleeves of his shirt in an attempt to pull his arms down. But I'm still shaking; my grip is weak alongside my mind. Please don't.
He presses a long kiss to my lips. Finally, the throbbing ceases — but in return I feel nothing, like I'm floating in zero gravity. My eyes are shut soundly. I taste heat and sake and virility and my own fear. My fingernails dig into his arms, but he strains his lips harder against mine. I only want to breathe. I drop my hands from his arms and scrabble to his hands. I try to pry them off. He merely bends forward, flattening himself unto me so that my back is to the couch.
His mouth pulls off to breathe (heavy, desperate) and tells me that I should kiss back. I purse my lips. This time I can feel my frown — (sheepishly deep) — and shake my head furiously. No.
I'm scared. I'm genuinely scared. I keep my eyes shut — horrified and disbelieving. Humans aren't supposed to be frightening. Friends aren't supposed to be frightening. He said he is a friend so he shouldn't be scaring me. I know my face is shamefully red and fearfully twisted; I feel it burn and tingle and note how Natori's hands are cool atop it.
When I don't offer a verbal reply, he mentions that my face is cute — "It's cute that you got embarrassed from a single kiss."
No it's not, no it's not. I didn't even want you to — but I didn't say anything, and I still don't. I wonder how flushed my face can get and I become utterly ashamed by that thought.
One of his hands drop to my shoulder, along with my hand frantically gripping it. Does he feel my trembling hand? I want him to — maybe he'll stop. He kisses the corner of my lips and I exhale a great, shaky breath. The corners of my eyes become moist —
I don't want to see. And I don't want to feel or smell or hear or taste — but those are out of my control.
He tells me again to kiss him ("just a little bit"). I'm hesitant, slow, but I do so very lightly. Initiating something like this is foreign to me. I feel betrayed by myself when I enjoy the tingling, meeting of skin. I remain motionless after that. Natori nuzzles my neck and mumbles a quiet thank you and pauses, as if he was anticipating a reply. Truthfully, I'm too distracted by his hands softly sweeping down my face, my chest, my torso.
When he kisses my neck, I'm caught off-guard. I gasp out a held breath and when I inhale, his distinct scent invades my nose. It's of musk cologne, sake, ink, and dry paper — it's definitive and sharp. I don't want to know it, recognize it, recall it. But it imprints itself in convenience.
His lips are placid but swift upon my neck, resounding with faint, brisk smacking noises. The couch groans through his shifting. An arm is now placed on my back; another thoughtfully pushes down on my chest. I am assisted to lie down on the couch that reeks of clean dust. My head spins as I lay on my back — despite my closed eyes.
Natori removes his mouth from my neck to speak above me in a whisper: "I don't want you straining your neck. This should be easier."
My mouth gapes in a silent sob. I don't want it to be easier. I bring my arms to cover my face. I don't. I'm ashamed, I'm confused, I'm disoriented. I let out an embarrassing whimper, although it's muffled when he covers my lips together with his. Another kiss, but wetter. What unsettles me is when something dampish, hotter, heavier taps against my lips. I know I'm frightened, I know I should have sealed my lips, but I'm dumbfounded and I become limp. It presses again. Oh, oh, it must be a tongue; a tongue. I hasten to the nearest object (an arm, Natori's arm — I don't want it, but my hand stays). It tries again — much easier this time — and touches mine. I groan, tighten my grip on his arm. He pushes deeper —
Oh god, oh god. It's hot, slimy, strange strange strange. I taste repulsive, sickly-sweet sake, a heavy force, desire— he flips my tongue up, slides against it. I squirm, emitting a small, drowned-out noise. Natori stops for a brief moment before repeating that motion. I try to make myself sound notably distressed and fidget sternly. He continues.
My fingernails dig into his forearm. Stop. I don't want to feel you or taste you or smell you or hear you.
There is no longer a mouth on mine.
"Natsume."
And please don't make me see you.
"Let me see your eyes."
I don't want his voice to sound like that — soft, careful, worried —
"Did I hurt you…?" His hand holds my face.
— nor his touch.
He tries to move the arm I'm clinging to. It doesn't budge and he doesn't force it. "Natsume…"
There's a foul silence after that. Am I still breathing? My lungs burn. Natori doesn't stir above me. Quiet. He won't move. Once I struggle to gasp for some air, he aggressively pursues again.
"Open your eyes."
When I do, my sight is a blur, but I recognize Natori's face above me. He stares at me, wearing a frown with downturned brows. I remove my hand from his arm and his hand falls from my face.
I know my eyes are watering by this point. He doesn't need to state this, but he does, and I feel worse. I don't want to cry. I don't. Not in front of him.
"I want to sleep," I croak out, my mouth heavy with a frown.
I'm reluctant to move, but Natori raises me up. My head spins at an alarming speed. Natori's hands are on me (I'm so dizzy), I'm led somewhere (the floor transforms into a wall), a lush surface is underneath me (Natori's face is in front of mine).
In that moment, I realize that I wasn't placed here to sleep. Again, I try to object, but I'm kissed, spread upon the mattress, and stripped. My consciousness fades in and out. His hands bend to me — move up, twist, sink. I recall hoarse breathing, murmurs, gasps, and pants. There are hands and lips and skin and heat. There is pain and pleasure. I still smell sake on him, but now it's lost within the sweat and his embodiment. I think I get used to the kissing, more so than the ache and anxiety convulsing through me.
Scoop up, pull down, hold still. I listen and obey. I'm rewarded with the taste of sake and tainted kindness. I don't test his patience to speak. I remain as silent as I can, despite being swollen with confusion, hurt, deception.
When it ends, my body finally eases — no more bending, turning, whispering, coaxing, lying — but I still struggle to breathe the thick atmosphere. I gag, causing my eyes to water. Natori asks if I'm okay. I don't look at him.
I'm escorted to the bathroom in front of the toilet. A hand smoothes up and down my back. I'm not sick; I only spit up. Though this place's smell doesn't help; it merely escalates my nausea.
He rinses my face, dabs a towel to dry. I hang onto his arms for support, knowing without a doubt that I would fall without some sort of purchase.
Back to the room, the mattress, the sheets, the tainted smell; I'm kissed 'goodnight.'
There's a warmth beside me that I don't wish for. The taste lingers, the smell stains, and unwelcome soft breaths slip by. At least I don't see him.
Restless dormancy finds me too easily.